South of Normal
by Inspector Minkey
Summary: ...I've been alienating people since I was three!... And House has, but why? Spring of '63 onward.
1. Chapter 1

**March 13, 1963**

John House was a strong man. Brave, intelligent, and assertive—all excellent qualities in a Marine. He found his life very satisfying. He had a prestigious career, a loving wife, and everything else a man could want. He even had a son, a curly-haired, blue-eyed boy that everyone pronounced "adorable".

John didn't see it quite that way. Over his last TDY, Greg had reached the point where he was no longer a sweet, observing presence. He was now a jabberbox, incessantly asking questions. For the first few days it had been amusing enough—certainly Blythe seemed to dote on it—but the novelty was wearing thin. John didn't know much about kids, but he was pretty damned sure that most people's three-year-olds didn't talk nonstop, picking up on every nuance of his parents' conversation.

Last night they had been talking politics.

"Things seem to be cooling down," John had promised. "Those Ruskies aren't going to—"

"What's a Ruskie?" Gregory had piped up, raising his head from the cabin he was building with his Lincoln Logs.

"It's a word for people who come from Russia, dear," Blythe had told him in her customarily sweet way. "And not a very nice word."

John had been just about to cut in and tell her not to malign him in front of the boy, but Gregory had got his two bits in first.

"What's Russia?"

"It's a country in Europe," Blythe had explained. "East of Germany."

"Oh," Gregory had said brightly, before getting to his feet. He still moved like a baby, planting his hands on the floor and pushing up with his chubby little legs. Dusting off the seat of his dungarees as if there was ever a spot of dirt on Blythe's immaculate floor, and tottered out of the kitchen.

Satisfied that there would be no further interruptions from the little ankle-biter, John had turned back to his wife.

"The Ruskies won't mess with us."

"No one wants a war, John," Blythe had told him.

"We're going to have a war. It just won't be with Russia. If things keep heating up between Minh and the French—"

"Mommy! Mommy!" Gregory had come back into the room, his short arms wrapped around an enormous book. He set it on his mother's lap and opened it.

"Greg! You don't touch the atlas!" John had snapped. "No!"

"Oh, don't shout, John, dear," Blythe had placated. "We look at the atlas all the time, don't we, Greg."

He had nodded happily, turning the large pages with little hands until he reached a simple, colorful map of the world. He pointed at Europe, touching each country as he named it.

"Red is France," he said. "Blue is Germany. Where is Russia?"

"Russia's orange," Blythe told him, pointing. "See? Russia, the Soviet Union. Right there."

"Russia," Gregory had parroted. "See, Daddy? Russia is orange!"

John had gritted his teeth impatiently. He couldn't wait for bedtime.

Of course, things hadn't improved with nightfall. Blythe had spent the better part of an hour, as usual, putting the child to bed. Then, just when they had been starting towards the real business of the evening, the air had been torn by a frightened scream.

Greg, it seemed, had frequent night terrors. There was one about a goose who wanted to eat him, and anther that featured a bridge of some strange and ominous origin. The one he had experienced last night involved some kind of sinister being known as the "Pie Face". Blythe had left the bed, cutting the foreplay off, and wrapped her bathrobe around her beautiful body before hurrying towards her son's room.

To add insult to injury, she had brought the sniveling little brat back to spend the night in their bed.

Now she was going shopping, and that meant that John would be alone with Gregory all afternoon. He understood that it was important to give his wife a break from the kid. After ten days, _he_ was sick to death of the incessant chatter and the insatiable curiosity, and Blythe had had to put up with this for months.

It wasn't that he didn't love Greg. Of course he did: the boy was his son, for God's sake. It was just that he was annoying. Whatever happened to "children should be seen and not heard"?

What Gregory needed was his father: a male presence in his life. Before his birth, Blythe had always come with John to his postings. Then with things heating up in Cuba and a small child to worry about, all that travel had stopped seeming like such a good idea. The result had been several long separations that drove John crazy. He worshiped his wife, and he needed her. And he just wasn't used to sharing her with this talkative little brat.

Gregory bounced on the soles of his feet, waving goodbye to his mother as she and a couple of her friends piled off in the station wagon. John held the screen door open. "Inside," he ordered.

"Okay, Daddy," Greg said obediently, smiling happily. "Do you want to play?"

"No," John told him. "Go and play quietly by yourself."

He moved into the living room and picked up a three-month-old National Geographic. Peace and quiet at last.

A merry laugh rang out from the direction of the parlor. John furrowed his brow and tried to ignore it.

He certainly hadn't expected fatherhood to be like this. His wingmen all had families. Their children were quiet, charming, and obedient. They didn't plague their parents with questions about geography—at the age of three, for God's sake! Why, Mad Dog McGilligan's boy was nine, and he hadn't cracked an atlas in his life. He certainly didn't plunk away at the piano like a—

The piano?

John threw aside the magazine and got wrathfully to his feet. That little monster was playing the piano! Blythe's piano, a treasure passed down through three generations of her family, and that precocious brat was thumping clumsily away at it!

He stormed into the parlor, where the child was seated on the revolving stool. Small fingers manipulated the keys.

"Gregory! No!" John said sharply, trying to be assertive like a good father should be.

Instead of obeying, the little boy started to sing in time to the notes he was picking out. "London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lay-dee-oh!"

"Gregory, I said _no_!" John repeated. He took the two tiny wrists firmly and pulled the hands off of the piano. "No! You don't touch the piano, do you hear?"

"I can play the piano," Gregory said. "Mommy loves music."

"I said no!"

"Yes," Greg argued.

"_No_!"

"_YES!_" The child wrenched free of the adult's grasp and turned back to the instrument, resuming his song. "Build it up with wood and clay, wood and clay, wood—"

Even before he realized what he was doing, John's palm was smarting with the contact it had made with the round little cheek. Gregory tumbled backwards off the stool with a tiny cry of pain. Then he began to sob, his blue eyes flooding with tears of hurt and indignation.

John stood, momentarily horrified at what he had done. He knelt before his weeping son and extended a hand. The child shrank away, and John's heart hardened. After all, he was the father, and he had given a direct order, and the boy had not obeyed. It was only right that he should be punished. It would teach him a lesson.

"Don't touch the piano!" he repeated sternly, then turned and marched out of the room.

He had the peace and quiet he craved after that. When she came home, Blythe didn't ask where Gregory had acquired the faint purple bruise on his cheekbone, and neither father nor son ever told her what had transpired.


	2. Chapter 2

**March 3, 1964**

Blythe House carefully unwrapped another glass and set it gently in the cupboard. She turned to survey her new kitchen, immaculately clean as only military housing was. Out the window she could see the tiny patch of lawn that purported to be a back yard, the six-foot fences that walled it off from their neighbors' lots, and the narrow back alley separating them from the civilian street behind theirs. In the larger yards she could see palm trees, aluminum swing sets, and fire pits—hallmarks of a clement climate.

They had finally decided to move. Things were heating up between President Johnson and Governor Minh of North Vietnam, and the House family was expecting deployment orders any day now. John would be called upon to serve his country in active combat. When the time came, Blythe wanted to be as close as she could be. In the first year of marriage she had accompanied her husband on all of his temporary duty assignments. With Greg now past the stage when childhood curiosity usually went completely unchecked by any sense of danger, it was time for the three of them to get down to the real business of being a family. They had rented out the house in Lake Forest, Illinois, and yesterday taken possession of this Marine-Corps-subsidized townhouse near the base in San Diego.

Blythe hoped that living together again would help John get used to being a father. He was never around long enough to settle into the new routine. It was ridiculous, because Greg was four now, and had been a part of the family for eighty percent of their marriage, but John had yet to adapt. He still seemed to look at the child as something of an intruder, with no real right to be in the house. The only way Blythe could explain it was that John didn't spend enough time with his son—maybe even resented the sedentary lifestyle that Blythe had adopted after Greg's birth. Moving to San Diego would remedy both issues, at least until John was called to war.

Blythe was sure of it. Once John spent more time with Greg he would realize what a special child their son was. He was so smart—he knew all fifty states and their capitals by heart, he could find them on the map, as well as at least two dozen countries, he could count fluently, and he had a rudimentary grasp of addition or subtraction, and already he was learning to read. Blythe didn't know anyone Greg's age who was even nearly as clever, observant or eloquent. How many toddlers could pick out tunes by ear on the piano, or sound out the front-page headline, or build a tower (not a house, but a five-storey _tower_!) out of cards? Greg was curious and articulate and so full of energy! Every new discovery was monumental and utterly fascinating. There was a naïve charm to that that was almost irresistible, and Blythe knew that John would be so proud when he realized how bright his little boy was.

Besides his intelligence, Greg was also so well-behaved. He always said "please" and "thank you", and he usually did as he was told. True, when he was really focused on something—a jigsaw puzzle or a ladybug in the grass or "The Beverly Hillbillies"—he wouldn't brook interruption. If you tried he would argue, sucking you into a game of "Yes!—No!—_Yes!—No!_" if you let him. If you persisted he might fly into a rage, or even try to hit you, but the minute your guard was down he would run right back to whatever he had been doing, absolutely single-minded. Blythe had learned that it was best to let him explore the world at his own pace. Lunch could wait until he was done watching an ant cross the back stoop, or tired of exploring the couch springs from below. Soon enough he would be in school, having a timetable force upon him. For now he should be free to be a child.

John disagreed. The Marine Corps bred its men with the archetypal military need for structure and punctuality. Any deviation from set routine made John uncomfortable. Blythe understood that, and skillfully avoided any upsets, but of course Greg was too young to understand that.

The clock in the living room rang out the hour: seven clarion chimes. Blythe smiled. John wouldn't be off duty until eight, which gave her a whole hour to enjoy this evening ritual.

Leaving the half-unpacked box of dishes on the counter, she moved into the living room. Greg was sitting with his back to her, playing with his magnetic alphabet and one of her cookie trays. As his chubby little fingers chose and aligned the letters, spelling out his surname, he chattered to himself. It was a seamless monologue that he had adopted a week ago when the loading of the moving van had solidified in his mind the concept of leaving Lake Forest.

"Goodbye, house," Greg said solemnly. "Goodbye House house. Get a new house. A new House house for Mommy House. Greg House and Mommy House will get a new House house in California. Sandy-eggo, California. Not Sacramento. Goodbye House house. Goodbye bathtub. Goodbye sandbox. Goodbye house. Goodbye House house."

Blithe smiled as she approached. She knew he was only parroting her own cheerful prattle, and had no real conception of the pun. He probably just enjoyed the repetitive sound. "Greg, love," she said. "Time for bed."

He looked at the narrow bay window, and then up at his mother, a puzzled look in his blue eyes.

"It's still daytime," he said.

"No, it's still sunny," Blythe corrected. "Sometimes it's sunny at bedtime, because the sun had a later bedtime than little boys."

His small brow creased: something she had said had not quite added up for him. "The sun doesn't sleep," he said. "It's a ball of fiery hot gas that stays in the sky, and the Earth moves around it. Why is it still sunny at bedtime?"

Fairy tale explanations weren't going to cut it, then. Blythe's proud smile broadened. He was so smart. She hoped the move would be good for him. Although he never complained, the kids in Lake Forest had bullied him. Blythe didn't know which ones were guilty of the unthinkable crime of beating on her little angel, but every four or five months it would happen. Giving him his bath, she would find horrible purple bruises on his little body, in places that couldn't be explained away as the normal bumps and knocks of childhood. Here, in San Diego, he would be safe from whatever little vulture had been preying on him.

"The sun isn't in charge of bedtime," she offered, trying a different tack. "The clock is in charge of bedtime."

Greg's eyes widened and went immediately to the mantle clock presently occupying a middle shelf on an otherwise empty hutch. "It is?" he breathed.

He was too young to grasp the concept of time, but Blythe was used to testing the waters: he had surprised her on more than one occasion. She seized the opportunity for a "teaching moment".

"Yes," she said, moving towards the timepiece. Eager as he always was when presented with a new concept, Greg got to his feet and followed. Blythe pointed as she explained. "When the little hand points to the seven and the big hand points to the twelve, that means it's seven o'clock. Time for bed."

Greg thought about this for a long moment, his head tilted to one side as he looked at the clock. Finally he nodded. "Okay," he said, and started to trot off towards his new room.

"Wait," Blythe said, and he stopped in his tracks. "Pick up your magnets first."

Greg sighed melodramatically and marched back to tidy up.

dpdpdpdpdpdpdp

The following evening Greg was playing quietly in his new room while John helped Blythe hang her favorite watercolors in the living room.

"Sounds like we'll be deployed in November," he said. "Unless things pick up unexpectedly."

"Good," Blythe commented, running her finger along the edge of a frame. "I'm glad you'll be around for a while."

"Must be hard on you, all alone while I'm away," John murmured. He set down the hammer and wrapped his arm around her waist.

Blythe sighed contentedly and leaned into his strong embrace. Her brave Marine. "I'm not alone, love," she reassured him. "I have Greg."

The clock struck the hour and John seemed to stiffen. His arms fell away as the patter of footsteps came up the hallway.

"Mommy?" Greg stood in the doorway, his pajamas in his hands. "The clock says it's bedtime."

Blythe looked up. Little hand on the seven, big hand on the twelve. He was right. It _was_ bedtime. An enormous rush of pride filled her. "So it is!" she exclaimed happily.

She turned back to John, about to ask if he would like to oversee the proceedings tonight. His expression stopped her. It was suddenly, inexplicably stony.

"Yeah," he grunted. "You've got Greg."

Blythe's attention was distracted from her husband as her child began to strip off his clothes in the midst of the living room. Laughing merrily, she took his small hand and steered him towards the bedroom instead.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to everyone for your enthusiastic reviews! They are very much appreciated. Sorry for the delay in posting: darned creative process! 

**June 26, 1964**

There was a monster in the closet. It was a huge beast with long, purple horns and nebulous black eyes. It had great big wings like those of a bat, and teeth as long as Mommy's fancy dinner knives. Its tail was covered in spikes, and it was so long that it reached out of the closet and coiled all the way around the little bed. All night the huge, threatening appendage would rest on the carpet, waiting patiently for the room's small occupant to make the fatal mistake and put his foot on the floor.

If he did that, Greg knew, the monster would wrap its tail around his skinny ankles, and trap him. He knew, too, that if he fell asleep the creature would come _out _of the closet and grab him.

Either way, once it had him it would pinch him with big, strong fingers. It would pinch, and pinch, until his blue eyes filled with tears. That would make the monster mad, and it would hit him in the stomach, so hard that he would fall down. The monster would hit him again, and all the air would explode out of his lungs. It would hit him _again_, in all the soft places where the blows didn't leave marks, but where it hurt so bad! Then Greg would cry for real, begging the monster to stop, pleading for the pain to go away.

The monster would get angrier and angrier, and hit him harder while commanding him to _stop snivelling_. And Greg would try. He would try so hard, but it would hurt so much, and the tears would just keep coming. Desperate to stop the hurting, he would struggle. Then the monster would hit him in the worst place of all. His vision would explode in black stars and he would fall to the ground, immobilized by agony.

"Next time, be a man!" the monster would say. Then it would all be over, except for the pain.

Greg didn't want that to happen. So he hugged his blankets to his chest and stared resolutely at his nightlight. He couldn't go to sleep. He had to stay awake. He had to.

_dpdpdpd_

He was falling asleep in his porridge again, John noted with some annoyance. Greg's curly brown head was nodding in a telltale way. His blue eyes were veiled with leaden lids, and his lips were parted drowsily. John folded his newspaper with two quick, precise motions. He dealt a sharp kick to the near leg of his son's chair, hoping to startle him out of his stupor.

He used more force than he had meant to. The seat flew away, yanking its small occupant with it. His elbows were tugged off of the table and there was a sickening _crack!_ as his chin made contact with the wood. It bounced off, and the boy hit the floor with a tremendous crash. He was awake now, and a brief, startled silence was followed by a sharp, piercing wail.

Blythe came running from the kitchen, dish towel in hand, just as the sobs began.

"Greg?" she cried, flying towards her fallen son. "Greg! Oh, _honey_!"

The limp bundle of cotton and corduroy was in her lap now, and she was rocking on her knees, cradling the boy tenderly.

"Ssh, baby, it's okay," she cooed. Then she looked up, her eyes flooded with dismay. "John, what happened?" she asked.

"Dozed off and fell," he said, shrugging. "He needs an earlier bedtime." It was getting ridiculous. The kid went to bed at seven. Why the hell was he always tired?

"Greg, honey, let Mommy see," Blythe coaxed, trying to lift the child's head from her bosom. The boy only sobbed harder, clinging to her as if his life depended on it. "Greg, let me see so I can kiss it all better," Blythe went on.

"You shouldn't coddle him," John told her firmly. "It's his own fault he fell. He should take the consequences like a man."

His wife huffed in annoyance. "He's four years old, John! And he's hurt. Oh, Greg, baby, let me see! Please let me see!"

The sobs were starting to level off a little, and the frantic grip on Blythe's arm began to ease. John felt a wave of contrition that he sternly suppressed. He hadn't meant to hurt the kid, but it _did_ serve him right for falling asleep at the table! Blythe was spoiling the boy, and she was going to turn him into a little monster, a disobedient, selfish brat, undisciplined, uncontrollable—everything John couldn't stand. Greg had to learn to be a man.

"Oh, _Greg_!" Blythe exclaimed. The little brat had _finally_ decided to obey her, and raised his head to reveal a split lip and a chin already bruising darkly. Blythe whipped out a handkerchief and began to tend to the copiously bleeding cut, all the while clucking consolingly. Finally the boy subsisted into hiccoughy sniffles.

"Are you going to be okay, baby?" Blythe asked, drying his eyes with a tenderness that made John's gut wrench. Once, she had favored _him _with such single-minded adoration. Now she only ever paid attention to Greg.

"Don't call him that!" John snapped, not noticing how the child flinched in response to the harshness in his voice. "He's not a baby, he's a little man! Isn't that right, son?"

"Yessir," the boy whispered, huddling close to his mother. Blythe wrapped her arms around him and kissed his hair.

"I guess you'll be more careful where you sleep from now on," John said cheerfully. If the boy learned his lesson, that was the main thing. Discipline was all that mattered.

"Yessir," the child repeated.

"Good," John said.

"Now, Greg, love, why don't you go and lie down on the sofa?" Blythe said. "I'll bring you a nice cold cloth for your lip."

Greg nodded and got to his feet, walking a little unsteadily towards the living room. Blythe stood up and watched him go, stricken with anxiety.

"I was only out of the room for a minute!" she fretted. "How on _earth_ did it happen?"

"I can't say," John told her. "It was over so quickly. He does seem to get into scrapes, though, doesn't he?"

She nodded, clearly distraught. Her mind was still on the boy.

The cowardly, snivelling, weak and disobedient boy.

_dpdpdpd_

Greg sat on Mommy's lap, his head resting on his shoulder. He loved it when Mommy held him. He was safe in her lap. Nothing could hurt him while he was in Mommy's lap.

She was talking to the man in the long, white coat.

"… and he's always tired. He goes to bed just fine, and he's quiet the whole night, but he'll fall asleep during the day. He's not interested in reading anymore, and he doesn't like playing outside."

The man nodded soberly. "And his chin. How'd that happen?"

"He fell asleep at the table. I was only out of the room for a second: he must have fallen," Mommy said.

Greg cuddled closer, and hid his face against her arm. He wanted to tell Mommy that he hadn't fallen. He _hadn't_. The chair had jumped right out from under him while he was caught between asleep and awake.

"That's a nasty bruise, there, son," the man said, reaching out.

Big hands scared Greg. He shrank away, but Mommy jiggled him gently. "It's okay, Greg. Let Commander Adair look."

Greg obeyed, and the man touched his bruised chin. To the boy's surprise, the hands were firm and gentle.

"Attaboy," the Marine physician said, smiling encouragingly. "Does that hurt?" He pressed down.

"A little bit," Greg whispered.

"Doesn't feel broken," the doctor said, and Mommy sighed with relief. "So, Greg, what kind of stories do you like your Ma to read to you?"

"I read them myself," Greg said.

The physician moved his hands to the boy's neck "Do you?" He looked at Mommy. "He's four?"

"Greg's very smart," Mommy said.

Greg felt proud. He liked it when Mommy said that. It made him feel special.

"I'll bet you are," Commander Adair said. "Now, Greg, do you have trouble sleeping?"

Greg shook his head. He didn't have trouble sleeping. In fact, it was too easy to fall asleep. If he fell asleep the monster would get him… "I have trouble staying awake," he said.

"I see," the man said. He reached over for the little table, and picked up a funny thing. It was shaped like the letter "Y". "Now, Greg, I need you to take off your shirt so I can listen to your heart, okay?"

Greg looked at Mommy. She smiled and nodded, and so he started to undo the buttons. Mommy helped him, and soon he was sitting there wearing his undershirt. Mommy turned him towards the doctor, who put one piece of the "Y"-shaped thing into each ear and lifted Greg's undershirt.

"Now, I'm going to listen to your heart," he said, blowing on the disc on the end of the thing. "It might be a little cold."

Greg gasped as the metal touched his skin. The doctor grinned, and Greg ventured a tiny smile.

"Attaboy," the man said again. "Take a deep breath." Greg complied. "And another. Good. Now—oh!" The doctor stared. His fingertips brushed the sore place on Greg's side. "That's some bruise, son. How'd that happen?"

"I don't know," Mommy said fretfully. "He does seem to have a lot of accidents."

"How'd you do this, Greg?" the doctor asked.

Greg shook his head. He didn't want to tell. He had to keep the secret. If he told, then Mommy would know what a bad boy he was. He didn't want Mommy to know how bad he was. She thought he was good. She thought he was smart. He didn't want her to know that he was really a bad boy. She would be so disappointed, and maybe she wouldn't love him anymore.

"Greg?" the doctor pressed. "How'd this happen?"

"I dunno," he mumbled. Then he yawned enormously. Mommy stroked his cheek and kissed the crown of his head.

"D'you think he's sick?" she asked.

"He doesn't look sick," the commander said. "Could just be fatigue. Some kids put an awful lot of energy into growing. He'll be a tall boy."

Mommy smiled proudly and hugged Greg tightly. "You know, I think he will!" she said happily.

Greg watched as the doctor took off the funny tube. He wondered how it let the man hear his heart. He wondered how it worked.

_dpdpdpd_

Blythe geared down into first and pulled into the driveway. She looked over her shoulder into the back seat of the station wagon, and sighed. Greg was asleep again, in his aluminium booster seat with his head against the window. _Why_ was he always so tired? It didn't make sense. He wasn't having night terrors anymore. A couple of months ago, he had been up just about every night, screaming and crying. He would repeat hysterically, over and over, that there was a monster in his closet and it was going to hurt him. He wouldn't calm down until she turned on the light and showed him that the closet was empty, and then took him to bed with her and John.

He had got over it, and she was glad, because it drove John crazy. He wanted Greg to be strong and independent. He didn't understand that he was still a little boy who needed looking after. Blythe didn't want him to grow up too quickly. Greg was getting so big already.

She got out of the car and opened Greg's door gently, reaching to support his head so that he wouldn't fall as the window moved away. He sighed softly as she unbuckled his seatbelt and gathered him into her arms. She wrapped her arm around his waist, and he flinched a little. Blythe murmured soothingly to him. How _had_ he got that bruise? He hardly ever played with the other kids on the street. He spent most of his time inside, sitting quietly or sleeping on the living room carpet.

Blythe carried him into the house. She set her purse on the hall table, and moved off towards Greg's room. As she walked she removed his little shoes, and loosened the button on his corduroys. She peeled back the quilt and settled him gently between the sheets. He sighed softly and curled into a ball, his fingers moving towards his mouth.

Smiling fondly, she covered him with the bedclothes. He was only four, after all. He wasn't too old for an afternoon nap if he needed one.

She kissed his round little cheek and left the room.

_dpdpdp_

The monster was breathing really loudly. Greg watched the closet, illuminated by the dim glow of the nightlight. He had to stay awake. If he didn't, it would come and grab him.

He wanted to yell for Mommy. Mommy would come, and scare the monster away, and take him to her bed where he would be safe. He could sleep in Mommy's bed. The monster wouldn't hurt him there. All he had to do was yell for Mommy.

But that would make Dad angry. Dad didn't like it when Greg was afraid. He would be mad. He would punish Greg tomorrow. He didn't want Dad to punish him. He wanted to be a good boy. He tried so hard to be good, but he could never do it. He would always do something wrong, and Dad would be angry.

He couldn't yell. He had to be quiet. He had to be brave. He had to be a little man.

He pulled the blankets closer to his chin. He could hear the monster breathing.

Then the nightlight flickered...

And went out.


	4. Chapter 4

Many thanks to **BethTx, She-Elf4, Grim Lupine, **and **Noah and Allie**. I'm so glad you're all enjoying the story. Thank you so much for taking the time to let me know what you think of it!

**August 12, 1964**

There was a mystery in the new house, and Greg had spent the better part of a week trying to solve it.

He had noticed the first part of the puzzle shortly after they had moved here. The old house, in distant Illinois, had had a thing called a radiator in every room. The radiator was a white thing almost as tall as Greg that looked like it was made of a big fat wire curled up like a spring. Radiators hissed and popped, and they all had a stopper on the side. When they got really loud, Mommy would put a cup under the stopper and pull it out. Air would whoosh out of the hole, and when water started to trickle into the cup then Mommy would put the stopper back. The radiators kept the house warm in winter time, and on really cold days they would get very, very hot! Once Greg had burned his hand on the radiator in his bedroom.

This house didn't have radiators. Greg had thought that that was very strange, but when he had asked Mommy why there weren't any, she had said that the new house had something called Central Heating. It would have been handy in Illinois, she had said, but she didn't think they'd ever use it in California.

It hadn't been very long ago that Greg had found something strange in his new room. On the floor by his nightlight there was a funny metal grate. It looked almost like the wall of a cage, but it was stuck into the carpet. There was darkness behind it, and it made a funny, hollow sound when he dragged a pencil over the slats. At first he thought that it might be a place where the monsters lived, but after a while he decided that that couldn't be so. The monsters were big, and strong, and they hurt him. The hole was very small, and the cage that covered it wouldn't let a monster get out. He had pondered this strange grate for a couple of hours, and then promptly forgotten it.

Then, last Thursday, he had found a similar grate on the floor in the kitchen. He was both surprised and annoyed that he had never noticed it before. It was exactly the same as the one in his room. Further investigations had turned up two more in the living room! There was one in the bathroom, underneath the towel rack, and one in Mommy and Dad's bedroom, between their big bed and the wall. It was when he found the one at the end of the hallway that Greg had made the connection between these grates and the radiators in the old house. There were radiators in every room. There were grates in every room.

What he couldn't see was whether the connection was real, or just what Dad called a "coincidence". Dad always said that things were a "coincidence", like when Greg was the one who found Dad's box of fruit salad, even when Mommy couldn't find it. Greg had seen Dad put the case that held his medals in the drawer in the kitchen on the first weekend that they had moved in. He had thought hard about it, and remembered, and gone to get them. Then Dad had snorted and said it was just a coincidence that Greg had checked that drawer.

It was then that Greg had decided that he didn't believe in "coincidences".

Since he didn't, that meant that this _couldn't_ be a coincidence. If there were radiators in every room in the old house, and grates in every room in the new house, then there had to be a reason. He just hadn't found it yet.

He had been busy all morning, shouting down the grates, banging on them, and going from room to room to see if this changed anything. Mommy was busy washing the windows, and so she didn't notice. She probably wouldn't have minded even if he had, because Mommy didn't care if he made a little noise. Dad cared. Dad would scold him, or pinch him, or if Greg was being really bad, take him downstairs to the cellar and lick him good.

But Dad wasn't home right now. Dad was at the base. In the fall, he would go away to a place called Vietnam, and he would be gone for a long, long time. Mommy explained that that was why they had to take special care of Dad while he was home, because he was going away for a long, long time.

Greg couldn't wait.

The pencil that he had been using to make the funny sound snagged suddenly. It was caught between the metal grate and the living room carpet. Curious, Greg wedged his little fingers into the crack. With a scrape and a pop, the grate came out of its hole!

For a second, Greg was frightened. He had broken the house! Now Dad would be _furious_! In a moment of panic, he took the grate and jammed it back into place. It looked just as it had before. You couldn't even tell the difference! Dad would never know!

Then the terror fled, and the curiosity came back. Dad would never know… so there could be no harm in lifting the grate again. Greg carefully slid his fingers under the metal edge, and took it out.

The hole looked like a prairie dog burrow like the kind Greg had seen in the park in Lake Forest, except that instead of being made of dirt, it was made of metal. He touched the sides of the hole. They were cool to the touch, just like the radiators in the old house had been cool in the summertime. Greg tried to see the bottom of the hole, but he couldn't: it curved away from him. He lay down on his stomach and put his whole arm into the hole, but although he could feel dust-bunnies and cold metal, he couldn't find the bottom of the hole.

Then he had an idea. He went to his room, and found his bag of marbles. He went back to the hole in the living room, and put a marble into it. There was a banging sound as the marble rolled away. It rolled and rolled for a long time, and then stopped.

Maybe the other holes went to the same place. Maybe one of the others was closer to the bottom. Greg replaced the grate and crossed the room to the other one. He dropped a marble into it, too. He couldn't tell how long it took to reach the bottom: it seemed like the same amount of time to him. So he went back to the first hole and dropped another marble.

"One-elephant," he counted out loud. "Two-elephant. Three-elephant. Four-elephant. Five-elephant." The noise stopped.

The other hole in the living room took five elephants, too. The one in the kitchen took six. Greg's room took four, and Mommy's room took four too, except that Greg didn't finish saying the last "elephant". The bathroom was the same as Mommy's room. The one at the end of the hall only took three elephants. That meant that the bottom was closest to the grate in the hall. Greg put several more marbles down this grate just to make sure.

Yes, he decided. The hole in the hallway was definitely closest to the bottom.

Try though he might, however, he just couldn't reach it. Finally, he had thrown the last of his marbles down the hole, and was just starting to get very angry, when Mommy called him to come for a snack. Greg replaced the cover with care, and for the time being, the mystery slipped his mind.

He knew he would figure it out eventually.


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you, **Readrbug21, Beth TX, DIY Sheep, Misano2003, Brace 42, Angelfirenze, Dana A, MusicalMemory, eunnuibluelite, Noah and Allie, Shadowluck231, She-Elf4, **and **Aqua Mage**. Your reviews are very much appreciated! I'm delighted that so many people are enjoying the story!

No, I'm afraid I do not have a live journal account.

Sorry, **Angelfirenze**. Doom cometh. Every experiment has its consequences…

**September 2, 1964**

Greg was sulking. He demonstrated this by sitting in the middle of the living room floor, Illustrated Animals of the World balanced in his lap, and reading silently.

Mommy had suggested that he read aloud to her, but he was sulking, and so he had not even acknowledged the comment. Mommy, familiar with his moods, was leaving well enough alone. She was sitting in her rocking chair, patching the knee of Greg's green dungarees with the carpenter pockets. When he turned the page, Greg would glower at her.

Greg's easily affronted pride had been dealt two blows this afternoon. First, Mommy had said "no" to playing outside in the rain. She said it was too stormy to go outdoors, thus defusing Greg's plans of filling a pail with earthworms and finding out how big the longest one was. Then, half an hour ago, she had bruised his dignity by making him put on his warm blue sweater. It was a Snowy Days sweater that he hadn't seen since they had moved here. It was too small, and it was itchy, and he _didn't_ need it! Just because Mommy was cold didn't mean he was!

The sound of the car in the driveway took all of the fun out of sulking. Greg straightened like a hound who smelled danger on the wind. Mommy was busy with her mending, and didn't seem to have heard the engine. Greg closed the book and got to his feet, hefting the heavy volume in his arms and hurrying towards the shelf where it belonged. Dad didn't like it when he looked at big books. It was bad, and Dad would punish him. Greg didn't want to be punished.

Heavy booted feet sounded on the wooden stoop, and the door opened. Dad came in, bringing wind and rain with him. He shut the door by leaning against it, and stood for a minute, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. Greg, caught too near the shelf of books, hurried to the other side of the sofa, perching on the edge of one cushion, and trying with all his might to look like a good boy.

Mommy smiled. "How are things at the base?" she asked.

"Boring!" Dad grunted. Greg pressed his hands against the sofa cushion, bracing himself against a shiver of fear. Dad was angry. He had had a bad day. Greg would have to be extra careful to behave, or Dad would punish him…

"We didn't do much here, either," Mommy said happily. "Did we, Greg?"

The child shook his head emphatically. He knew that Mommy would never tell Dad about the fight over the sweater, but there was always the fear that she _might_… Greg wished suddenly that he had agreed to read out loud to Mommy.

"Uhn," Dad said, taking off his coat and bending to undo his boots. "Go and get my slippers and newspaper," he said.

Greg knew that the order was meant for him. He ran off towards the bedroom as fast as his little legs would carry him. If he tried very, very hard, maybe he could be good today. Maybe he wouldn't mess it up. Maybe he wouldn't be punished.

He found Dad's slippers, and hastened to the kitchen for the paper. When he got back to the living room, the big man was already in his chair, a figure of authority with his military haircut and still-immaculate duty uniform. Greg gave him the paper, and set the slippers by his feet, then retreated to a safe distance.

"Took you long enough," Dad complained.

"John, really!" Mommy said. "That was very nice of you, Greg. Thank you for doing that for your daddy."

Greg smiled. Mommy thought he was a good boy. She moved the mending off of her lap and patted her knee. "Come here, sweetheart," she said.

Greg took the invitation immediately, climbing into her lap and cuddling close to her. He was always safe in Mommy's lap. When she hugged him he felt so much better. He wasn't as frightened, and he wasn't as frustrated, and even the sore spot over his hip didn't hurt as much. Greg closed his eyes as Mommy began to rock the chair. She kissed the crown of his head.

Dad broke the silence. "Why's it so cold in here?" he asked. "I told you; turn on the furnace when you need it!"

"I tried," Mommy said. "It made such an awful noise that I turned it off again."

"Noise? What kind of noise?"

"A banging sound," Mommy said. "It didn't sound normal."

Dad got up and left the room. Greg opened his eyes again, watching warily for his father's return. Before he came back, Mommy sighed and brushed her lips against the child's forehead.

"I'd better start supper," she said. Then she slid Greg off of her lap and stood up, and before he knew what was happening, the little boy was alone in the living room.

He heard the hum of the furnace starting up, and then there was a hissing sound. It was followed quickly by the banging, rumbling noise that he had heard before, when Mommy had tried to turn it on. He heard a puzzled "What the hell?" from the hallway, and then the heavy footsteps as Dad went from room to room, listening. A minute later, the furnace was off again, and Dad descended to the cellar.

Relieved that he was safe again, Greg went to his room to play quietly with his toy cars. Dad usually didn't notice him if he played quietly and stayed out of sight.

An hour later, Mommy called him to help set the table. Greg did so carefully; centering a plate on each placemat, lining up the cutlery with care, and making sure the napkins were carefully folded. Dad was no where to be seen. Greg guessed that he was probably still downstairs.

Mommy's tuna casserole smelled delicious. Greg's stomach grumbled noisily, and his mouth was watering. He didn't even hear the sound of his father coming up from the basement.

"You can turn the furnace on now," the man said. Greg almost dropped the salt and pepper shakers. "I found the problem."

"What was it?" Mommy asked.

The voice was deep and commanding. "Gregory House, come here!"

Greg obeyed as quickly as he could. His little heart was pounding in his chest. What had he done wrong this time?

His father was standing by the refrigerator, with a grim expression on his face. His uniform was now rumpled and smudged with dust, and his hands were dirty.

"Where are your marbles, young man?" Dad asked.

His marbles? Greg thought frantically. He had used them for something… he remembered now. He had put them down the holes under the grates in every room, trying to find out where the holes went… The look on Dad's face was terrifying. He was angry.

"Gregory, answer me," he said tersely. "Where are your marbles?"

Frightened and confused, Greg blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "In my room," he said.

Mommy laughed a little. "John, what on earth—"

Dad interrupted her. His voice had moved to a lower register, and it was very stern. "Where are your marbles?" he repeated slowly.

"I-in my room," Greg repeated.

The muscle in Dad's jaw bulged and twitched. "Go and get them," he ordered.

Greg ran to his room, shaking with fright. He hadn't meant to say that, but he couldn't explain what he had done and why. Now Dad was going to find out that he had lost them, and Dad would be angry—so angry! Dad _hated_ it when things got lost! He would punish him!

Greg wanted to crawl under his bed and hide, but he couldn't. Maybe he could pretend to be surprised that the marbles were gone, the way everybody had been surprised when Dad's medals had been missing. Maybe…

He had an idea. He found his empty marble bag, and then he took down his piggy bank from its shelf. Money was heavy, like marbles, and it rattled, like marbles. He pulled out the cork from the bottom, and poured the pennies into the bag. He hefted it critically. Too heavy. Carefully, Greg removed a handful of change. Now the bag was too light. He added coins, two at a time, until it felt right. Then he steeled his nerves, and ventured back to the kitchen.

Mommy was standing by the stove, looking sad and worried. Dad's face was impassive, but his eyes were very, very angry.

"H-here they are," Greg stammered, holding out the bag. It jingled as he moved it, and he realized his mistake. Money _didn't_ sound like marbles after all.

"Those aren't your marbles," Dad said coldly.

"Yes, yes, they are!" Greg cried. He wanted to run. He wanted Mommy to hug him. Why wasn't Mommy helping him?

Dad reached into his pocket and drew out a fistful of… Greg's heart stopped. Dad had his marbles! He had known all along where they were! Suddenly, Greg felt angry. Dad had tricked him! He had fooled him!

But why?

The bag was plucked from his fingers, and Dad upended it on the counter. Greg's carefully hoarded pennies spilled out over the melamine surface. The marbles were deposited in a cereal bowl that had probably been laid out for that very purpose. Dad licked his lips and swallowed tightly.

"I will not be lied to," he said, speaking very slowly and enunciating very clearly. Greg knew that voice. It was the Punishment Voice. He was in trouble…

"John, he only—" Mommy began.

"I will _not_ be lied to!" Dad repeated. "Not by anyone, and certainly not by my own son! Downstairs, young man!"

Mommy frowned, puzzled. "Why?" she asked. "What are you going to do?"

Greg knew what he was going to do, but Mommy didn't know. Mommy had no idea that Greg was a bad, bad boy who had been punished many times. Mommy didn't know that Dad would take him down to the basement to hurt him and teach him to be a man.

"I'm going to teach this little brat a lesson about lying!" Dad growled. "Downstairs! At once!"

"John, you're not going to spank him?" Mommy cried. "For one little fib?"

"Blythe, I will not have a lying little monster in my house!" Dad snapped.

"His _first _fib—"

"If we don't nip it in the bud, he'll get an idea that this kind of behavior is something he can get away with! I won't stand for that! _Downstairs_!" he roared, turning to Greg.

Terrified, the child looked at his mother, hoping that she would protect him. There was no help in that quarter. Mommy shook her head sadly.

"You mustn't tell lies, Greg," she said. "Obey your father."

Feeling the tears already prickling in his eyes, Greg ran for the cellar door. The basement was cold and empty, a hollow concrete room with shelves of preserves. He stood, shivering, in the cold semi-darkness, waiting for his punishment.

Dad came down, closing the door behind him. Greg stood very still, hoping that the punches wouldn't be _too_ hard, and wondering why, _why_ he could never do anything right!

"Take off your pants," Dad ordered.

"Why?" Greg asked, curiosity breaking through the terror. He had never done this before.

He was so curious that he didn't see Dad's arm move until the backhanded blow sent him tumbling onto the hard floor. Greg whimpered a little, trying to stifle the sound. It was always worse when he cried. Dad didn't like crying.

"Because I told you to!" Dad snapped. "Take off your pants and your shorts!"

Quivering with fear, Greg obeyed. By the time he had finished, Dad had removed his long leather belt, and bent it in half.

"Now bend over," he ordered, flexing the weapon menacingly; "and think about what you said to me!"

By the time the hiding was finished, Greg wished he could die.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you, **Angelfirenze, DIY Sheep, Beth TX, Snark-bait, Aqua Mage, WuHaoNi, MusicalMemory, SamBell, La Lolita, SupportSeverusSnape, restlesssoul, She-Elf4, **and **Brace42 **for your lovely reviews! I really appreciate that you took the time to tell me what you think of my work!

**Later That Same Evening, September 2, 1964**

Blythe stood by the stove, listening to the silence. It had been quiet for a long time now. Scarcely more than a minute after John had disappeared down the stairs, there had been two sharp, wailing screams that had torn at her heart. Poor little Greg, having his first taste of corporal punishment. She knew that her proud, strong-willed little boy wouldn't take well to his father's disciplining hand. The humiliated sobs that had followed seemed to bear this out. Then John's voice, stern and reprimanding, delivered the lecture on the importance of truthfulness that Blythe couldn't deny the child needed. Finally, there had been a cacophonous crash: Greg had probably found her roaster and hurled it across the room in an indignant tantrum. Since then, there had been silence.

She wasn't sure what to think. The penalty seemed so harsh. After all, it was such a little fib, and Greg had never lied to them before. He didn't keep secrets: he was a sweet, clever and candid child, never afraid to say what he was thinking. He had probably been scared that he would receive a scolding for putting his marbles down the register. It wasn't as if he had told a lie out of malice.

Blythe didn't really believe in spanking. She felt that children were more likely to obey you if they saw the reasons for doing so. She always took care to explain to Greg _why_ he should behave in a certain way. Life was much easier for everybody if he could understand things logically.

Take this afternoon, for instance. Instead of insisting that he put on his sweater, she really should have warned him that he was going to get sick if he didn't. She should have taken the time to explain why the house was cold, and why he ought to—

There was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, and a sound of small hands fumbling almost desperately with the cellar doorknob. Blythe hurried to open the door.

No sooner had she done so than Greg shot past her. He ran towards the hallway. He was moving too quickly, and his feet flew out from under him. He pitched forward, landing on hands and knees with such force that his shoulders jarred, and his neck snapped painfully backwards. He didn't pause to cry out, but scrambled up again and vanished around the corner.

Blythe was staring after him, shocked and confused, when John appeared on the back landing.

"Where'd he go?" he asked conversationally.

"To his room…" Blythe breathed. "John, do you really think it was necessary to spank him? It was only one little fib, and he's just a baby."

"He's not a baby!" John snapped. Then his expression softened. He came one step higher and kissed her cheek. "He's a little man, and he has to learn that he can't tell lies. If we don't stop it now, he'll be lying about school in no time. Then girls. Then crimes—"

"He's not going to turn into Al Capone because we didn't spank him for fibbing about his marbles," Blythe said.

"I didn't do anything to him that my daddy didn't do to me," John promised. "Look how well I turned out."

Blythe couldn't help smiling a little. "I know," she said. "You're a good father. And I agree that he _does_ need to learn to tell the truth. I only—"

"I know, I know," John chuckled. "You don't think I should spank him. And I won't, as long as he behaves. As long as there's no more lies. Now!" He smiled and squeezed her waist. "How 'bout some of that grub? Smells like a piece of heaven."

Blythe felt herself warming to the compliment, but maternal instinct nagged her. "You go ahead and start," she said. "I'll just go check on Greg."

"Don't coddle him," John said. "He needs to think about what he said to me."

"And he needs to hear from me that lying is unacceptable, too," Blythe said. "Go ahead and start your dinner."

The door to Greg's room was open. Blythe turned on the light, but he was nowhere to be seen. His piggy bank was on the floor, and his toy cars lay abandoned in a corner.

"Greg?" Blythe called gently. "Greg, where are you?"

A tiny, whimpering sound came from under the bed. Blythe got down onto her hands and knees and raised the green dust ruffle.

Two wide, glassy sapphire eyes stared back at her, bloodshot and rimmed with red. The round little cheeks were wet with tears, and smeared with black trails of dust. Blythe looked at her son solemnly.

"Greg, come out from there," she coaxed.

He shook his head vehemently.

"Greg, come and give Mommy a hug."

"No." It was scarcely more than a whisper. He hid his eyes in his hands. He was lying on his belly with his feet straight out behind him. Between the grime and the rumpled clothes, he looked like an urchin from a Charles Dickens novel: a little throwaway hiding from the parish beadle.

"We need to talk," Blythe said. "Do you know why Daddy spanked you?"

His whole body shuddered as if he was trying to hide a sob. "Uh-huh," he said miserably.

"You can't tell lies, Greg. When we tell lies, we trick people. That can be dangerous. It can hurt people. When we tell lies, nobody believes us, even when we tell the truth."

"He hitted me," Greg whimpered. "He hitted my bum."

Blythe swallowed hard. The image of her husband's hand coming down on her son's little backside was a troubling one. "I know, sweetheart," she said. "Daddy was trying to help you remember not to tell lies."

Greg looked up at her again from beneath the bed. His expression was heartbreaking. In an older person, Blythe would have seen the look for what it was: a betrayal of frantic desperation. On her son's innocent little face, however, such an emotion was out of context. She wasn't sure what to think, and the next words were taken at face value only. "He hurts me," Greg whispered. "Dad hurts me."

"Oh, honey, your daddy loves you. He only spanked you because you told a fib." Blythe wanted to gather her boy into her arms and rock him until the indignity was forgotten, but she knew it was better to leave him alone to settle his ruffled feathers in peace. "Are you hungry, baby?"

She didn't see the despair that flooded the crystalline eyes, because Greg buried his face in the carpet. "No," he whimpered.

"Well, then, why don't you put on your pyjamas and get some sleep?" she asked.

The single syllable was strained, as if it scarcely escaped his lips intact. " 'Kay."

"Good boy," Blythe said. Then she got to her feet and left the room. Dear little thing, she thought. It was best to leave him in peace to lick his wounds and nurse his bruised pride.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM 

Greg listened to his mommy walk away, leaving him alone under the bed, and his young heart faltered. It wasn't just his pride that was bruised. Mommy hadn't been able to see the red, raised welts running up and down his thighs and his buttocks and the small of his narrow little back. By tomorrow, they would be all but faded, only a couple of purple splotches left to tell the tale of the licking that the child had received. In a couple of days, every trace would be gone, but right now, the agony was worse than anything the boy had ever known, and his mother didn't know about it. She didn't see that the pain wasn't just shame and indignation. She didn't know what had happened in the cellar. And because of her words, Greg didn't really understand that she was ignorant of the treatment he had received.

_Daddy only spanked you because you told a fib_. Her words rang in his mind. The keen young brain that could absorb facts with amazing rapidity could also relive conversations and tirades almost word-for-word. Greg whimpered and hugged himself, rolling as far onto his side as he dared. Daddy had hit him with the belt because he had told a fib. It was all Greg's fault.

A fat tear rolled down one grubby cheek. Greg deserved to be punished: even Mommy thought so. That hurt worse than the beating. Mommy thought he was a bad boy for telling a fib. Maybe she didn't love him anymore. If she didn't love him, then nobody loved him. Nobody in the whole, wide world.

That thought was more terrifying than the thought of what Dad would do to him next time he was bad. Maybe Mommy didn't love him anymore. Maybe that was why she hadn't listened when he had told her that Dad hurt him. Maybe…

Greg began to weep again, great, silent sobs shaking his tiny body. _Daddy only spanked you because you told a fib_. It was his own fault. Dad had said so, too. _You brought this on yourself, son. Take it like a man_.

It was all his fault. He was a bad, wicked boy.

It was all his fault.

Huddled under his bed, shaking with physical anguish and psychological torment, the battered little boy cried himself to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks to **Angelfirenze, tanzfieber, Ashley, Rose12345, Aqua Mage, chickleta, Snark-bait, BethTx, SamBell, MusicalMemory, SupportSeverusSnape, Ecstace, WuHaoNi, Noah and Allie, willywonka3435, Dr. Fantabulous, Wind Wanderer, restless-soul, Anutheal, **and **graybaby1** for your lovely reviews! They're much appreciated!

**November 20, 1964 **

The glass muffled the roar of the engines as the enormous aircraft lifted itself off of the tarmac. Greg watched as the plane rose higher and higher, and the horizon rippled behind the curtain of heat.

He knew what was happening. Mommy had explained it all, using the atlas to show him where his father would go. The plane would take Dad and the other men to the Philippines. There, they would put their guns and their uniforms and their little fighter planes onto a big ship that would carry them across the Pacific Ocean to the Sea of Japan. Greg imagined that the ship looked like the galleon in _Gulliver's Travels_, only much, much bigger, with airplanes on the deck in stead of canons. He had had a great dream, where the ship had been wrecked in a storm, and the Lilliputians had tied Dad down with hundreds of little ropes, so that he couldn't get free, and he never came back. He hadn't told Mommy about it, though, because Mommy was sad that Dad was leaving.

She was sad because Dad loved her. He hugged her and kissed her and called her "Blythe" and "Darling". He never shouted at her, and he never had to punish her. He would tell her that her cooking was wonderful, and say how proud he was to have such a pretty wife. Sometimes Greg wished that Dad would say that things _he_ made were wonderful, or that he was proud to have a boy like him, but Dad never said those things. It was because Greg was a bad boy.

At least Mommy didn't know that Greg was bad. Greg was so careful not to let Mommy find out. It was Greg's secret. He was a bad, bad boy, and he had to keep that secret.

It would be easier now that Dad was gone. It was easier to be good when Dad wasn't around.

When Dad was home, Greg could never do anything right. When he helped with the dishes, he didn't wipe them well enough. When he came into the house, he didn't put his shoes away right. He looked at books that he wasn't supposed to look at, and played the piano too loud, and left his toys in the wrong places.

When Dad _wasn't_ home, Greg was such a good helper in the kitchen. He was careful because he always remembered to take his shoes off. He was so smart, because he could read the books. He played the piano so beautifully, and Mommy liked to play with his toys, too.

Greg liked it better when Dad wasn't home.

The plane was tiny now, smaller than the gull that flew over the runway. Bored of the spectacle, Greg looked around at the other families who had come to see the Marines off. There were lots of mommies, and all kinds of kids. There were great big boys with short hair and bright shirts. There were girls with long legs and big earrings and even bigger hair. There were kids from the elementary school, talking loudly to each other and comparing baseball cards and dolls. There were a few little kids, like Greg, standing close to their mothers and looking around with wide eyes at the busy terminals, and there were two little babies.

One of them was crying, struggling in her mommy's arms as the lady tried to jiggle her on one of the hard airport chairs. Greg watched for a minute, fascinated by the miniature human. The baby looked just like a person, but much, much smaller. Before he realized it, he was moving closer to the young mother.

"Don't cry," he said, addressing the infant seriously. "You shouldn't cry."

The baby didn't listen, and that made Greg nervous. It was bad not to listen. Scary things happened if you didn't listen. He glanced around nervously, and then tried again.

"Don't cry!" he said. Then he had an idea. When he was sad, Mommy would cheer him up by making funny faces and tickling his tummy. He puffed out his cheek and reached for the baby, wriggling his little fingers against her round abdomen. "Hey, baby!" he said, trying to sound playful and happy. "Hey, baby!"

It worked. The baby started to giggle a little. Greg smiled happily. "Hey, baby!" he repeated.

"Her name is Sarah," the mother said. "What's your name?"

"Greg," he whispered, suddenly shy. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be over here. He wanted to run back to Mommy, but at the same time, he was interested in the baby. He looked at Sarah. "How'd she get so tiny?" he asked.

The woman laughed a little. "She was born tiny," she said. "Now she's growing."

"I'm growing," Greg said. It was true. He was five years old now, and next year he would go to school. Just last week, he had discovered that he was tall enough to reach the tap in the bathroom sink without using the footstool. "Does her dad fly a plane?"

"Yes," the lady said, and she sounded sad when she said it—just like Mommy.

"My dad flies a plane, too," Greg said. "He's going far, far away for a long time!"

He didn't realize how excited he sounded. The lady smiled. "You sound very proud of your daddy," she said.

"No," said Greg bluntly. "I want him to go away."

The moment the confession was out of his mouth, he gasped in horror. He hadn't meant to say it out loud! If Mommy heard, she would be sad. If Dad heard, he would be mad. Greg would be in trouble…

"Hey! That's my sister! Leave her alone!" an indignant little voice cried. Greg turned to see a girl about his age, in a silly, frilly blue dress, running towards them. A bigger girl, one of the ones with nail polish and a bright, short skirt, struggled to keep up with the child despite her high heels. "That's _my_ sister!" the girl repeated.

"I was just looking," Greg said defensively.

"No!" the girl argued. "She's my baby sister!"

"You should share," Greg philosophized. Mommy always said that he should share, but it never worked out. When he tried to share with other kids, they always hogged stuff. When he tried to share with Dad, then Dad got mad and told him to stop pestering. The only person Greg could share with was Mommy.

"No! I won't share!"

The lady cleared her throat sternly. "Maggie," she said, in what Greg recognized at once as a Warning Voice. He stiffened, wondering if the lady was going to hit the girl. That was what the Warning Voice meant.

To his surprise, Maggie didn't look scared. Instead, she looked a little sheepish. She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess I can share a little bit," she said; "but be careful! Babies are breakable."

"No, they're not," Greg said. "Babies are little people. You can't break people."

A gentle but firm hand descended on his shoulder, and Greg looked up at Mommy. Her nose was red and her eyes were wet, but she was smiling. "What are you up to, Greg?" she asked. Before he could answer, Mommy smiled apologetically at the other woman. "I hope he wasn't bothering you?"

"Not at all. He calmed Sarah down—I think she's picking up on my feelings."

"I'm Blythe House," Mommy said. "My husband's a captain."

"Emily," the lady said. "Captain House? My husband's in his squadron: Lieutenant Carter…"

Greg tuned out the adults and turned back towards Maggie.

"I'm five," he announced factually.

Maggie fiddled with her fingers, carefully tucking in her thumb. "I'm this many," she said.

Greg felt suddenly clever and superior. "That many is four," he told her. "How come you have a baby?"

Maggie shrugged. "She growed up in Mommy's tummy," she said. "Don't you have a baby?"

Greg looked at his mother's stomach. How did a baby fit in a stomach? "No…" he said, feeling suddenly jealous and a little inadequate. "But I've got a tricycle!"

He was pleased to see a glitter of envy in the girl's green eyes. "Can I share it?" she asked.

"It's at my house," Greg told her. "On the base."

"I live on the base," the girl said. "I live there with my Mommy and my Daddy and my baby. 'Cept Daddy's gone away on the plane, so Auntie Gwen's gonna live with us instead. She's going to school."

Greg looked at the tall girl, who must be Auntie Gwen. "Aunts don't go to school," he said.

"Auntie Gwen does," Maggie said. "She goes to a school called Yousee Esdee. Right, Auntie Gwen?"

"That's right," the tall girl said. She looked uncomfortable. Maybe it was the shoes, Greg thought, or maybe it was because she didn't have anybody to talk to. His mommy and Maggie's were cooing over the baby. He was talking to the little girl, but Auntie Gwen didn't have anyone to talk to.

"I don't go to school yet," Greg mused. "I'm too little."

"Me, too," Maggie said. She smiled happily.

Greg ventured a smile in return. Maybe they could be friends! He had had friends back in Lake Forrest. Anyway, he wanted to find out how babies fit into tummies, and why an aunt was going to school. There were things that he could learn from Maggie…


	8. Chapter 8

Oh, dear. Such a long wait for such a short chapter. It's that time of year, I'm afraid. Huge thank-yous to everyone for your reviews!

**December 13, 1964**

Busy with her bread dough, Blythe didn't realize that it was five-thirty until she heard her son move from his bedroom into the front hallway. The sound made her heart ache. Every day since John's departure, Greg had gone through the same ritual. At five-thirty—the earliest his father had ever returned from the base—he would migrate towards the front door. He would sit on the bench by the front closet, watching the street through the narrow window next to the door. At six o'clock—the latest that John had come home—Greg would get up and leave his post, returning quietly to whatever he had been doing, convinced that his father was not coming home today, either.

Poor little thing, Blythe thought. He couldn't really understand that John was gone, and she wasn't sure she wanted him to. A year was an inconceivably long time for a young child, and Greg would be heartbroken if he thought his father would never return!

That this might be the case was a possibility that Blythe found intolerable. She knew that she wouldn't be able to bear it if John were killed in Vietnam. He had only been gone three weeks, and already the empty space in her bed seemed like a portent of grief to come. Blythe didn't want to burden her little boy with these fears.

She busied herself with kneading the dough, trying to bury her worries and unhappiness in the mundane task. The clock struck six, and she heard Greg hopping off of the bench. Instead of returning to his room, however, he came into the kitchen. Tears were smarting in Blythe's eyes, and she didn't want to show them to her child, so she pretended that she hadn't noticed his entrance.

He stood there for a long time before finally speaking.

"Mommy?" he ventured, his voice no more than a timid whisper.

"Yes, sweetheart?" she said, trying to smile as she turned to look at him.

His blue eyes were enormous, and his little face was stricken with distress. "Mommy, I broke my nightlight," he said.

"You what?" Blythe exhaled, almost laughing in her bewilderment.

"I broke it," Greg said. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I broke it."

A fat tear rolled down his cheek. Blythe, unable to see her child unhappy, hastily wiped her flour-coated hands and stroked his curly hair. "Show me," she said.

Greg led the way to his bedroom. He pointed wordlessly at the lamp, which was still plugged into the socket and looked just fine to Blythe.

"It doesn't look broken," she commented.

A tiny, frightened sob shook Greg's shoulders. "It doesn't work," he said.

Realizing what he meant, Blythe unplugged it. Sure enough, there was a faint rattling sound. She laughed. "The bulb is burnt out," she said. "You didn't break it: it just needs a new bulb."

Greg stared at her. "I didn't?"

"No!" she assured him. The distress still lingering on his little face was at once comical and heartbreaking. Blythe gathered him into her arms, her heart throbbing with contentment when he twined his arms around her neck, burying his face in her blouse. "I'll buy a new bulb, and it'll be good as new."

There was another small sob. "I was scared," Greg confessed. "The dark is scary."

"Yes," Blythe agreed. "I'll tell you what. How 'bout you sleep in my bed tonight?"

Greg pulled back and looked up at her. "In your bed?" he echoed. "With you?"

"If you want to," Blythe amended. She remembered when he had sought refuge from his night terrors between her sheets almost daily, but perhaps he felt that he was too old now, at the venerable age of five, to sleep next to his mother. The realization that her little boy might be growing up much more quickly than she had suspected was a frightening one.

"I want to," Greg said hastily. Then he paused, almost defensively. "What will Dad say?"

Blythe sighed sadly. "Daddy won't know," she said with regret. "Daddy is far, far away across the ocean."

"He's gone," Greg said. Blythe didn't quite comprehend the happiness now filtering into the child's voice. "Far, far away in V'etnam." He bounced happily in Blythe's lap, and then hugged her fiercely. "I love you, Mommy!" he said with vehemence that made Blythe smile.

She kissed his forehead.

"I love you too, Greg," she avowed. "I love you so much!"

She was unaware of the weight that these words lifted off of the boy's weary little heart.


	9. Chapter 9

First of all, a HUGE thank-you to everyone (if anyone) who's bothering to pick this story up again! I've been very busy these past many moons, trying to finish my degree. Now that it's down to the last weeks, I'm procrastinating! So, finally!, another chapter.

Second, "_Que Sera Sera" _© 1956 Jay Livingston and Ray Evans

**February 9, 1965**

Greg liked Maggie's house. It was cheerful and pleasant. The furniture was soft and squishy, and upholstered in bright colors. There were always toys lying around in a glorious disarray that contrasted with the careful tidiness of his own home. There were cookies to eat, and baby Sarah to play with, and Maggie to impress with his vast knowledge. There were lots of great things about Maggie's house.

Best of all, though, was Auntie Gwen. She wasn't always there, because even though she was a grown-up she went to Yoosee Esdee, but some afternoons she would be home. She played with Greg and Maggie like she was just a big kid. She was funny and she didn't treat them like babies. And she played the guitar.

Greg _loved_ the guitar. Gwen would take it out of its furry brown case, and set it lovingly in her lap. Then she would spread her long fingers over the frets, and music would magically eminate from the heavy wires. Gwen usually sang kids' songs, like _The Owl and the Pussycat_ and_There's a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea_. She also sang the alphabet a lot, because even though Greg knew his ABCs off by heart, Maggie was littler and she didn't. Sometimes, however, Gwen would sing grown-up songs, too. Greg really liked the one about how it didn't matter any more, which along with the one that went "_Deep in my heart, I do believe…"_ was one of Gwen's favorites. Greg liked it because sometimes he wished that a lot of things didn't matter anymore, especially when Mommy talked about the time in the distant future when Dad would come home from the war.

On this particular afternoon, Gwen had run through the usual repertoire of children's songs, and was still strumming away. She had a distant look in her eyes as she sang, but Greg was too transfixed by her hands to worry about her face. He was standing next to her where she sat on the sofa, leaning on her knee and watching the guitar as if mesmerized by its magic. Maggie had grown board of listening, and was now on the other side of the room, undressing her baby doll with incredible resolution.

Auntie Gwen changed chords and began to strum melodiously as she started a new song.

"_When I was just a little girl,_

_I asked my mother, 'What will I be?_

_Will I be pretty, will I be rich?'  
Here's what she said to me:_

_Que sera, sera._

_Whatever will be will be_

_The future's not ours to see._

_Que sera, sera."_

Greg was so enchanted by the music that he was scared to interrupt it. It took an enormous effort to stifle his insatiable curiosity, but he withheld his burning question until the last chord sounded and Gwen relaxed her hands with a small sigh.

"What does it mean, Kay Sarah, Sarah?" he asked eagerly.

Gwen smiled a little. 'It's French,' she said. "_Que sera, sera._ It means 'what will be will be'."

"Oh." It was a sophisticated bit of rhetoric for such a young mind. "What does_that_ mean?"

"What do you think that it means?" Gwen asked.

Greg's brow furrowed and his eyes glinted in response to the challenge. It was a puzzle! This was what he loved about Gwen: she didn't tell him how he should think. She let him figure things out by himself instead of giving away the answers and spoiling the fun.

"What will be will be," he repeated pensively. "I think… I think that… I think it means what's going to happen is going to happen no matter what we do."

Gwen nodded somberly, echoing his words in a strange, haunted way. "No matter what we do. You're right, kiddo. You're a smart little guy, Greg, you know that?"

Greg grinned proudly. He had found the answer! He had got it right!

Gwen wasn't smiling. She was gazing off into space, and there was melancholy in her voice as she spoke. "What's going to happen is going to happen, and there's nothing we can do to stop it."

There was a silence. Greg watched the young woman's face, but he couldn't understand her expression. The puzzle in her eyes was too difficult for a child to unravel. All he could really comprehend was that the words held some terrible significance for her.

What will be will be, he thought. And we can't change it

TLTLT

Greg was very quiet. He had been quiet since coming home from the Carters', and it was making Blythe nervous. He was a talkative child, and often played out loud, carrying on whole conversations with drama and enthusiasm. When he was quiet, it meant one of two things. Either he was being good (dear little boy!) because John was tired, or he was getting into something that he shouldn't be in.

She slid her bread dough into the oven to rise, and was just about to go off in search of her son when he cried out for her.

"Mommy!" he shouted. "MOMMY!"

Blythe's pulse quickened. There was an unmistakable urgency to the exclamation. She hurried into the parlor, from whence the cry had come.

Greg was sitting on top of the piano, his little legs dangling down. In his hands, he held the willowware vase that usually stood where he was now perched. He looked up as she entered, a very serious expression in his brilliant blue eyes. Then, in the moment it took for Blythe to recover from her surprise at this odd scene, he extended his arms.

"Greg, no, don't—' Blythe exclaimed, but it was too late. Greg released his grip, and the vase hit the floor, shattering with a dull moaning echo.

Blythe inhaled so sharply that her lungs almost seemed to collapse. Greg stared dumbfounded at the broken vase, teetering for a moment on his precarious perch before instinctively seizing the lip of the piano lid to steady himself. Before Blythe knew what was happening, Greg was in tears. Too soft to bear the sight of her little boy weeping, Blythe tiptoed amid the shards of porcelain and lifted Greg off of the piano.

"Silly goose," she soothed, moving out of the danger zone and over to the settee, where she settled him into her lap. "What did you think would happen if you dropped it?"

"It's broken!" Greg said woefully. "It's broken!"

"Yes," Blythe corroborated solemnly. "It's very, very broken. Why did you drop it?"

"You didn't stop it," Greg reproached, accusation in his voice.

"No, I couldn't stop it," Blythe said.

Greg sobbed. "You didn't want it to break!" he cried. "Why couldn't you stop it?"

Blythe frowned, trying her best to be stern but failing utterly in the face of her child's distress. "If you didn't want it to break then you shouldn't have dropped it," she said. "I can't stop things that are already going to happen."

Greg stared at her for a moment, and then started to cry again. Blythe rocked him soothingly.

"Why did you drop it?" she asked gently.

Greg's whole body shivered in distress. "I wanted you to stop it," he said frantically. "I wanted to see you stop it."

Something was troubling him: Blythe could see that there was more to this than a broken vase. But Greg's vocabulary, though precocious for a four-year-old, was obviously inadequate for the task of articulating whatever thought was torturing him. He couldn't explain, and Blythe didn't know how to help him do so. All she could do was hold him until he calmed down again.

She didn't always understand what went on inside of Greg's head, but she loved him with all of her heart.


End file.
